


look alive, sunshine

by sanetoshiapologist



Category: Ano Hi Mita Hana no Namae o Boku-tachi wa Mada Shiranai
Genre: Bittersweet, Childhood Friends, Friendship, Gen, Moving On, One-Shot, Post-Canon, product of my anohana feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:46:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanetoshiapologist/pseuds/sanetoshiapologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five teenagers, still entangled in the past, take the first step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look alive, sunshine

Naruko Anjou finds herself facing two choices from the moment she wakes up and glances at her dresser mirror.

_Anaru or Naruko?_

Video games and manga versus mindless chatter regarding mani-pedis and the latest tofu diet trend.

She knows she can't possibly have both. But right now, a disheveled mess under her rumpled sheets, neatly-painted toenails poking out from underneath her coverlet, she's neither. It's like she's in a transient state, a purgatory realm of sorts, watching as the little pink ants crawled by.

Her fingers reach for the glasses that are perched on top of her nightstand. Burgundy and hopelessly-thick, rectangular-shaped and absolutely, positively hideous. Her eyes focuses in on the teddy bear nestled in the crook of her elbow, the world in stunningly rare clarity; from the convivial treetops swaying to bid her good morning to the stacks of colorful building blocks gathered in the corner of her room, nothing escapes her sharp, darting gaze.

Like quicksand. Or a hawk.

It feels good. It really does.

Naruko runs her fingers through her tangled tresses- wavy and still effervescently ginger, but not as hopelessly curly and untameable and dull as before. She extricates herself from her bed, shuffling to her closet. Her carefully-manicured nails touch her freshly-washed skirt, the smothering scent of her rose perfume filling the heavy fabric.

All this self-indulgence, it never seemed to end.

 

 

The name Chiriko's never suited her.

 _Tsuruko, Tsuruko, Tsuruko_.

Even now, in a blinding world, it screams of love, of loss, of summer breezes and steamed cakes and things never said.

A fresh pastel portrait is held delicately between her fingers. A girl, hair like a bundle of silver streamers in the wind, sitting against a strong, sturdy oak, blue eyes hastily-blotted dots and tears dripping down her pale, peachy face.

She suddenly reaches up to stroke her hair, lowering her hand back to her desk when it brushes against the sharply-cut ends that barely curl around the nape of her neck. Once long and elegantly sweeping and one of the only things she had to be proud of among her long-lashed, well-endowed classmates, her hair was frayed, bangs hanging resignedly in front of her face as she gazes at the drawing.

A reminder, forever and always.

"It's just something we'll have to get used to, hm?"

The wind whistles in response.

 

Yukiatsu, the moniker worn carelessly on his cheek, turns to the girl sitting next to him during lunch and asks casually, "Hey, how about a drink today?"

She blinks owlishly, shocked by his sudden, mid-class proposal, and a flicker of irritation burns in his stomach.

_Just answer the question, goddammit._

It happens, over and over. Lemonade stirred in a cup, a hesitant giggle. A lock of hair tucked behind her ear as she overtly bats her eyelashes at him, tilts her head towards him at the precise angle where the dim light hits her porcelain skin. It's disgusting, he knows. The names blur as weeks and weeks go by.

He can feel her stares.

One day, he returns the sidelong glances to the one who's always been there, always watching. A slender hand rests against her cheek, fingers drumming idly against her desk. The mid-morning light seems to glow against her close-cropped hair, a blue a darker navy than the sky.

On a whim, he tears a corner of a piece of notebook paper (apple is to orange as dog is to cat, in spindly, crooked print), and scribbles furiously on it, nimble fingers folding it into a lined paper crane. He waits for the bell to ring, and as the students rise in a drunken stupor to file out of the door, he staggers his footsteps so he's standing right behind her. Gently, so as she can't notice in her distracted, wandering daze, he slips it into her bag.

_Wanna try again?_

 

Courage isn't something that's found easily. Poppo strongly believes that he knows this better than anyone, teetering against the very corners of the earth desperately searching for it in the fresh cow's milk of Benares, in the creamy Nutella crepes of Paris, in the hot, steaming baths of Budapest.

Of course, it wasn't always far from home- a hodgepodge of a shack, whittled away by time.

Wearing the Hawaiian shirt from his last escapade (over six months ago, he thinks sadly), he steps outside, the light breeze raising the thick, coarse hair on his beefy arms. An empty coffee canister is held firmly between fingers that tremble in heart-pounding trepidation, a bundle of purple wildflowers haphazardly jabbed in the hollow center. He treads, lightly, lightly, even for his size, like the Thai monks had instructed him to. _Lightly row, lightly row. Over glassy waves we go._

He kneels in front of the bubbling stream, tilting his head to gaze pensively at the stretch of blue, blue sky. The jagged rocks cut into his bare, ashy kneecaps, but he barely registers the faint, pricking sensation, laying the canister into the water. It drifts along, carried away by the gentle current, rounding bends and soft curves until it's out of sight. Gone, gone, gone.

"Good-bye."

He mentally puts a little 'x' on his map of the world with his felt-tip marker, barely visible among the large, boasting thumbtacks and smiley faces that had chronicled his yearning globe-trot.

Yes, yes, yes. It had been here all along, just waiting for him to find it.

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, sometimes, sitting up just to gaze at the waning moon. Eyes scanning his cold, empty room, he relives the waking disappointment once more. No glassy-eyed girl sprawled among pink bedsheets, snoring softly. No perching between his legs, begging for rice balls or ramen or whatever else.

No, no, no.

But Jinta Yadomi understands. She'd meant to fill in the gaps, leave behind a world that's fine without her. Leave to live another day, content with watching the ladybugs inch by- somewhere else, no longer prowling the dusty wood.

There's a math test tomorrow. After a half-year of not attending school, the loopy numbers are sure mind-boggling. He scratches his head, runs his fingers through the bushy hair Anaru still complains about, gazing hopelessly at the symbols, the mocking swirls and dots and dashes. It was like a language of its own, a Morse code of sorts.

 _How'd you talk to a horse? In Morse, of course!_ she'd laugh, feet dancing among the cicada shells and sun-kissed dirt. Not that any of them had known Morse anyways. And besides, Menma had sucked at math.

The gang's promised to come over today- a mass study session. Midterms are coming up, and he and Anaru and Poppo are in full cram mode. Yukiatsu'll bring his favorite aloe vera lemon drink, Tsuruko's tiresomely-punctual arrival might herald an entire plate of her delectable almond cookies, and who knows, maybe they'll set fireworks and tell ghost stories and roast chestnuts over an open fire.

Either way, it'll be okay.

Everyone knows it will.


End file.
